


Intermission Report

by oh_simone



Series: in which, the Vongola Famiglia plays the fastest game on earth [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, that hockey au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7038898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments during game days for the Midtown Clams, the NHL's resurrected hockey franchise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pre-game rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Some bits and pieces of the hockey!au. Lot of old notes gathering dust, so I've cleaned some chunks up for posting.

The rhythmic pulse of bass is audible from Mukuro’s headphones, despite their noise-cancelling capabilities, driving a mindless beat that his heel taps out. His eyes are closed, chin tilted down, firmly in his own world. Across from him the captain tapes his stick, a serene expression as he winds and unwinds and rewinds in some fathomless pattern that only makes sense to himself. Outside in the hall, laughter and hollow bounce of a soccer ball mix with the skid of sneakers and shouts. Yamamoto taps the ball over to Gokudera, who despite his look of boredom, lofts the ball deftly towards Lambo. The rookie, startled when the ball flies towards his face, catches it with both hands and then grins weakly when the others boo and rib him good naturedly. They fall into respectful silence though, when Lancia straightens up and says, “Coach.”

Coach Born, sauntering down the hall in steel gray suit flicks a sharp, precise motion. “Time to get ready, boys,” he says curtly, and they file back into the locker room. Yamamoto bumps shoulders amiably with Gokudera, who growls, but no one is shoved into the lockers, so it’s fine.

The staff is piping in music overhead in the locker room, soft muted classical. Hibari looks like he’s thinking about stealing Mukuro’s headphones, but Tsuna, already in his gear, closes his eyes and tries to focus on it, rocking softly back and forth. It’s something familiar and bright, and he recognizes one of Reborn’s many small idiosyncrasies at work. Basil taps his foot with his stick, and Tsuna nods tersely to him; they bump knuckles gently for luck before Basil fits his cap over his hair and heads out to wait in the hall.

Ryohei, finished with his taping, begins making the rounds of the lockerroom, clapping heavy hands to shoulders and mussing damp hair with his gloves. He touches every one of them in some casual, familiar way, and they let him with minimal protest. Even Kyouya allows him the brush against his forearm—pregame superstitions sacred in this space and time. One by one, they troop out into the hall. Yamamoto and Gokudera, inseparable on ice as well as off, jostle and bicker, but move in perfect rhythm as they troop out. Mukuro replaces his headphones with his helmet and smirks as Lambo casts about for a missing glove. He pulls the glove, seemingly out of thin air, and tosses it straight into the rookie’s offended expression before hooking an arm around the kid’s neck and dragging him out of the room.

A half step after them, Tsuna rolls his shoulders, thick with padding, and huffs a short, sharp breath. The pounding in his wrists and throat has an intimate feel; nerves, yes. But also, _hockey_. He steps into the hallway where his teammates are lined against the wall, shifting from skate to skate.

“Alright, Boss,” Gokudera says, first and most fierce.

“Alright, Boss,” others chorus, some tapping him with their sticks as he walks to the head of the line. It’s a greeting and a statement, half-benediction and half superstition, never a joke, not anymore. Tsuna still burns a little under the weight of expectations, but he has stopped shrinking from it. As he passes, Ryohei clasps the back of his head and they clunk their helmets together.

“This is the extreme, buddy,” Ryohei says quietly like he always does, that little manic grin tugging at his lips. “Did you ever imagine…?”

The doors to the rink have been hauled open; the dull roar of the crowd suddenly amplified into a physical presence—the air hums with noise and vibration.

“Here we go,” Tsuna mutters, and heads forth into the arena as his nerves give way to adrenaline rush. Behind him, the boys holler and whoop, surging after him and spilling out under the bright white lights, spiraling and circling the ice to the thunderous cheering of the crowd.

_Ladies and gentlemen_ , the announcer proclaims, his voice reverberating above their heads, _your hometown boys, the Midtown Clams!_


	2. post-game loss

In the aftermath of a loss, any loss and certainly one as bad as this one, the post-game locker room is characterized by moody silence. With only the scrapes and rustle of padding and skates coming off, the atmosphere in here is grim and heavy.  Hibari is stoically favoring his right side after a particularly brutal hit in the third period, and even Mukuro, usually impassively smug, has a tightness around his eyes. Lancia is quietly and methodically flexing his hand and fingers, bruised knuckles rigid after that fight in the third period. 

Ryohei sighs to himself tiredly and scrubs his hand through his sweaty white spikes of hair. The team assistants are collecting the dropped gear and towels quietly; none of them venture to say a word of encouragement or consolation, which is just fine with the team. In a few hours, Ryohei will be better; he’ll have left the crushing disappointment behind in the locker room like his discarded towel while turning to other mundane matters like reading bedtime stories to his daughter or helping Hana plan for Thanksgiving dinner. But a loss is always the worst right after the game because the knowledge is inescapable and the locker room without distraction. He glances at Gokudera, who’s stripped and ready for the showers, but is sitting on the bench with his elbows on his knees and shoulder hunched. The d-man is clenching his right hand absentmindedly, the look in his eyes dull and dark. Ryohei feels the  “C” on his shoulder heavier now than any other time; knows it’s his job to say something, kick their spirits up, but he can’t think of any words, and he’s _tired_. All he wants is to go home to Hana and the baby, and not think about standings or turnovers or three penalties in a row, Jesus _Christ_.

Yamamoto trudges into the locker room, already pulling off his jersey, his usual smile faded to nothing. Behind him, Reborn follows him and stops in the doorway. He folds his arms and glares at all of them silently. None of them meets his eyes; Tsuna glances up, then quickly looks away. He looks miserable and young. Though his stats are rising, he’s still one of the smaller goalies in the league and at this moment, he looks positively frail and swamped by his padding. He’d let in four goals tonight, three too many and though the loss wasn’t all on his shoulders (Ryohei makes a note to have a word with the coaches on their offensive drills), it’s clear he’s taking it to heart. Ryohei reaches out and shakes his shoulder, then squeezes it gently before letting go. The goalie gives him a half-hearted smile that is both grateful and grimacing.

Reborn waits until everyone slowly winds to a stop before speaking, and when he does, his voice is dark, but even.

“You’re all dead-beats,” he announces flatly, his trigger finger twitching against the fine sleeve of his expensive suit. Ryohei suddenly recalls all those rumors of Reborn’s supposed past associations with certain Italian fraternal organizations. Their coach looks at them, his heavy gaze measuring each of them in turn. “But I see you all know that. We’re out in two hours. Tomorrow, get your brains back; we’re having practice.” Thus decreed, Reborn spins on his heel and leaves.

None of the team dares to groan or protest. Some reporters venture in after he leaves, mikes and recorders and cameras on, and Ryohei straightens up. Yamamoto and Hibari have already slipped in to the showers, and Mukuro is on his oiliest best, giving the blandest, most stock replies to the questions of the reporters even as he inches behind Lancia. The reporters only press him half-heartedly; Mucker’s a frustrating subject at the best of times and they’ve learned to go elsewhere for usable soundbites. Ryohei can see that Gokudera is not to be approached at this time; he looks ready to start swinging at a wrong glance. Besides him, Tsuna twitches miserably and Ryohei shoves him gently towards the showers as the reporters bear down on them.

“Go on, and take Yatzy with you. He looks extremely dangerous right now. I’ll take care of them,” he murmurs, jerking his head to the reporters, and Tsuna nods and pushes off the bench. He nods and smiles politely to the reporters, but doesn’t slow for them as he makes for the showers, and Ryohei grins a little at that. Tsuna may not know it, but he’s growing more confident in himself, and it’s showing, even in tough moments as these.

The lights and recorders swing upon him then, so Ryohei swipes his forehead with his towel and faces them all with the stoicism of a pugilist in the last round.

“Ryohei Sasagawa, captain of the Midtown Clams, tell us, your team had been doing so well that first period. What do you think went wrong?”


End file.
